troubled and grieved by the absence of her mother. It seemed as if every
thing she loved had deserted her, save the good old nurse. But she was
naturally a cheerful light-hearted creature, and storms must sweep over
such hearts again and again before hope is entirely driven forth. She
was even smiling with some degree of her old mischievous playfulness at
the pompous way in which the good nurse flourished her badge of office,
a huge key which had not yet been put in requisition, when the door was
pushed gently open and a lady of mature but delicate loveliness entered
the room. She was very pale. Her eyes, naturally dark and mild, were
full of troubled light, and flushed a little, as if she had just been
weeping. Her morning robe was slightly disordered, and the head dress of
jewels and velvet, which ornamented, without concealing her beautiful
hair, was placed a little too much on one side, a sure sign of agitation
in one usually so fastidious regarding her toilet.
Lady Jane was still listening with a languid smile to the well-intended
prattle of her nurse, and the door opened, so quietly that she was not
apprised of her approach, till the duchess stood close by her side.
With a glad exclamation, and like an infant pining for its mother’s
presence, she started up with an affectionate impulse, and flung her
arms around the lady, then bending her head back, and looking fondly in
her face, murmured—
“Dear mother, have you come at last?”
The duchess bent her face to that of the affectionate creature clinging
to her neck, but there was constraint in the action, and no kiss
followed it. Her daughter felt this as a repulse, and gently unclasping
her hands, stood without support, looking with a kind of regretful
fondness in the face which had never dwelt frowningly on her before.
“Oh! mother, how can you look upon me thus—how have I deserved it!” she
said at last, striving to check the tears which would spring to her
eyes; “How is it that every one turns coldly from me. You, my kind and
gentle mother,—you, that have never sent me to rest without a blessing,
who scarce would let the light kiss my forehead till your lips had
pressed it in the morning. You are growing distrustful like the rest. I
did not think a mother’s love would chill so easily—that _my_ mother
could even find it in her heart to look harshly on her child. Nay,
mother,—dear, dear, mother, do not weep so—I did not think to grieve
you thus deeply. Why do your lips tremble? Why do you wring my hand so?
What wrong have I done? I entreat you tell me all—my heart will break
unless you love me as of old.”
The duchess was much affected, but still maintained the severity of
manner which she had brought into the room, though it evidently cost her
a strong effort to resist the appeal of her child. She sat down upon the
bed, and, drawing Lady Jane before her, took the small hands, clasped
together, in both hers, and looked searchingly into the soft brown eyes
that met her gaze, not without anxiety, but still with a trustful
fondness that would have disarmed a firmer heart than that which beat so
full of generous and affectionate impulses in the bosom of that noble
lady.
“Jane,” she said at last, glancing at the slender fingers locked in her
own, “where is the ring which I gave you on the duke’s last birth-day?”
Lady Jane started at the question, and withdrawing her hand, cast a
quick glance upon it, and then turned anxiously to the old woman.
“My careful nurse here, must have taken it from my finger as I slept,”
she said, doubtingly.
The old woman shook her head, and Lady Jane turned earnestly to her
mother, perplexed alike by the loss of her ring, and the strange effect
which it produced on the duchess.
“When did you wear it last?” enquired the lady.
The young lady mused for a few moments, and then mentioned the previous
day as that when she remembered to have seen it on her finger.
“Ay, I remember well,” said the nurse. “It was on my lady’s hand when
she lifted it to chide Richard for his outcry in the crowd. Just then I
was carried off by the mob, and jostled about till it seemed a miracle
that I ever reached the barge again. I mind now that Richard saw the
ring also, for when we all met at the landing, and sat waiting, hour
after hour, in hopes that some blessed chance would direct the poor lady
how to find us, I would have gone back in search of her, but he forbade
me, saying, that no harm would befall a lady of her high condition while
she carried on her fingers the power to purchase protection; so, when
the night closed in, we rowed down the river, just in time to see the
sweet child borne to her chamber, more dead than alive, with the
ill-treatment she had received.”
The duchess turned her eyes earnestly on the nurse as she spoke, but if
she thought to detect anything but an honest spirit of truth in those
withered features, her scrutiny was unrewarded.
“How chanced it,” she said, turning again to her daughter, “how chanced
it that you were entangled in the mob near St. Margaret’s, when you went
forth to enjoy the morning breeze upon the river?”
Lady Jane looked surprised at the question, but answered it without
hesitation.
“It was very early,” she said, “and the air blew chill on the water, so
I bade the men pull up at Westminster Bridge, intending to take a walk
in the Park, and return home, but as we were crossing up from the river,
the crowd came upon us, and in my terror I was separated from my
attendants and sought shelter as I best could.” Lady Jane then proceeded
to inform her mother of the events which we have already described in
two previous chapters; but she had been so dreadfully terrified that her
narrative was confused, and though it possessed all the simplicity and
force of truth, the disappearance of the ring still appeared a mystery,
for she could in no way account for the manner in which it had left her
possession, but stood pale and utterly overwhelmed with astonishment
when informed of the charge brought against her by the artisan.
“And did my father believe this of me?” she said, turning to the duchess
in the anguish of an upright spirit unjustly accused. “I could not
suspect any one I loved of a base thing! Yet has my father, whom I
honored and worshipped so, not only condemned but reviled me in the
presence of my affianced husband, and all on the word of a base man,
more despicable far, than the rudest workman who breaks stone in his
court yonder.”
There was a newly aroused pride in the young girl’s bosom that gave
dignity to the words she uttered. A rich color broke over her cheek,
and, for the first time, those soft eyes kindled with indignation as
they fell upon her mother.
“Let me go,” she continued, “let me stand face to face with my accuser.
It is not well that the daughter of a noble house—the cousin of an
English Monarch, should be tried and condemned, without hearing, on the
word of a base varlet picked up amid the dregs of a mob.”
The Duchess gazed upon the excited young creature before her with
mingled feelings of surprise, regret, and, perhaps, some little share of
anger, that she could so easily depart from the humility of her usual
deportment, for though a fond parent, she had even been rigid in her
exactions of deference and respect from her children. The love of a
mother is very powerful, but the pride of a high born English-woman,
educated for her station, is, perhaps, the strongest feeling of her
nature. The duchess felt the truth of all that her daughter had said,
but she felt its boldness also, and her nice feelings were shocked by
it.
“Your father had other reasons for doubting the integrity of Lord
Dudley—for it would seem that this strange outbreak is occasioned as
much by his imprisonment as your own,” said the lady in a tone of grave
reproof, dropping her daughter’s hand. “We have good cause to fear that
the earl, his father, has been tampering with the young king, and that
he is using all secret means to supplant my noble lord in the power and
station which he now fills. He has left no means untried to gain
popularity in the city. That Lord Dudley has dared to appear against the
Lord Protector, heading a mob almost in open rebellion, is proof that
evil exists, and is spreading through the court. My lord has taken
prompt measures, and in this should not be arraigned by his own child.
If the Lord of Warwick and his son are still loyal to the Protector let
them prove it before the king. But from this hour it is the duke’s
pleasure that the contract existing between the two houses be at an end
forever.”
Lady Jane stood perfectly motionless and pale as marble when her mother
finished speaking, but after a moment she moved across the room and
glided through the door without speaking a word, and, as if unconscious
of the presence she had left.
“Poor young lady,” muttered the nurse, wiping her eyes and casting a
look, which would have been reproachful but for awe, upon the
duchess—“her heart was almost broken before, but this will be the death
of her.”
“Peace, good dame, peace,” said the Duchess of Somerset, in her usual
calm and dignified manner. “My daughter must learn to make sacrifices
when the honor of her house is concerned. From the first I acquitted her
of all wrong intention regarding the diamond, and I deeply grieve at the
annoyance it has produced both to her and us. But regarding Lord Dudley
and his alliance with your young mistress—it can never be thought of
again. Let it be your duty, good dame, as the most cherished attendant
of my child, to reconcile her to the change.”
With these words the Duchess of Somerset left the chamber just in time
to see the Lady Jane disappear from the extreme end of the corridor
which led to the duke’s closet.
(To be continued.)
* * * * *
TO ISA IN HEAVEN.
BY THOMAS HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D.
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven!
—_Young._
Where is she now?
Oh! Isa! tell me where thou art?
If death has laid his hand upon thy brow,
Has he not touched my heart?
Has he not laid it in the grave with thine,
And buried all my joys?—Speak! thou art mine!
If thou wert dead,
I would not ask thee to reply;
But thou art living—thy dear soul has fled
To heaven, where it can never die!
Then why not come to me? Return—return,
And comfort me, for I have much to mourn!
I sigh all day!
I mourn for thee the livelong night!
And when the next night comes, thou art away,
And so is absent my delight!
Oh! as the lone dove for his absent mate,
So is my soul for thee disconsolate!
I long for death—
For any thing—to be with thee!
I did inhale, alas! thy dying breath,
That it might have some power on me
To make me what thou art!—but, thou art dead!
And I am here!—it strengthened me instead!
Joy there is none—
It went into the grave with thee!
And grief, because my spirit is alone,
Is all that comes to comfort me!
The very air I breathe is turned to sighs,
And all mine soul is melting from mine eyes!
I hear, at even,
The liquid carol of the birds;
Their music makes me think of thee in heaven,
It is so much like thy sweet words.
The brooklet whispers, as it runs along,
Our first love-story with its liquid tongue.
Wake, Isa! wake!
And come back in this world again!
Oh! come down to me, for my soul’s dear sake,
And cure me of this trying pain!
I would give all that earth to man can be,
If thou wert only in this world with me!
Day after day
I seek thee, but thou art not near!
I sit down on thy grave in the cold clay,
And listen for thy soul!—oh! dear!
And when some withered leaf falls from the tree,
I start as if thy soul had spoke to me!
And so it is,
And so it ever more must be
To him, who has been robbed of all the bliss
He ever knew, by loving thee!
For misery, in thine absence, is my wife!
What joy had been, hadst thou remained in life!
It is now even;
The birds have sung themselves to sleep;
And all the stars seem coming out of heaven,
As if to look upon me weep!—
Oh! let me not look up to thee in vain,
But come back to me in this world again!
* * * * *
MAY EVELYN.
BY FRANCES OSGOOD.
Beautiful, bewitching May! How shall I describe her? As the fanciful
village-poet, her devoted adorer, declared;—“The pencil that would
paint her charms should be made of sunbeams and dipped in the dewy heart
of a fresh moss-rose.” Whether this same bundle of beams and fragrant
rose-dew would have done full justice to her eloquent loveliness, I
cannot pretend to say—having never attempted the use of any brush less
earthly than are made of hog’s bristles, nor any color more refined than
a preparation from cochineal. Her eyes were “blue as Heaven,” the heaven
of midsummer—when its warm, intense and glorious hue seems deepening as
you gaze, and laughing in the joyous light of day. Her hair, I could
never guess its true color; it was always floating in such exquisite
disorder over her happy face and round white shoulders—now glistening,
glowing in the sunshine, like wreaths of glossy gold, and now, in
shadow, bathing her graceful neck with soft brown waves, that looked
like silken floss, changing forever and lovely in each change. Blushes
and dimples played hide and seek on her face. Her lip—her rich sweet
lip was slightly curved—just enough to show that there was pride as
well as love in her heart. She was, indeed, a spirited creature. Her
form was of fairy moulding, but perfect though “petite!” and her motions
graceful as those of the Alpine chamois.
Reader, if I have failed in my attempt to convey to you an image of
youthful grace, beauty and sweetness, I pray you repair my deficiency
from the stores of your own lively imagination, and fancy our dear May
Evelyn the loveliest girl in the universe.
And now for her history. Her father, of an ancient and noble family, had
married, in early life, a beautiful but extravagant woman, who died a
few years after their union, leaving him with two lovely children and an
all but exhausted fortune. On her death he retired from the gay world,
and settled with his infant treasures in Wales, and there, husbanding
his scanty means, he contrived to live in comfort if not in luxury.
There, too, brooding over the changes of human life—the fallacy of
human foresight, and the fickleness of human friendship, he became “a
sadder and a wiser man.” His two beautiful children, Lionel and May,
were the idols of his heart, and well did they repay his love.
May’s first serious trouble arose from hearing her father express one
day his desire to purchase for Lionel a commission in the army. The boy
was high-spirited and intelligent, and had cherished from childhood an
ardent desire for military life; but there was no possibility of raising
sufficient money for the purpose, without sacrificing many of their
daily comforts.
At this time May was just sixteen; but there was in her face a childlike
purity and innocence, which, combined with her playful simplicity of
manner, made her appear even younger than she was. She hated study,
except in the volume of nature; there indeed she was an apt and willing
pupil. Birds and streams and flowers were her favorite books; but though
little versed in the lore of her father’s well-stored library—she had
undoubted genius, and whenever she did apply herself, could learn with
wonderful rapidity.
The only science, however, in which she was a proficient, was
music:—for this she had an excellent ear and, when a mere child, ere
her father’s removal to Wales, had been under the tuition of a
celebrated master. Her voice was rich, sweet and powerful, and her
execution on the guitar, piano and harp, was at once brilliant and
expressive. She had, also, a pretty talent for versifying, and often
composed music for words, which, if not remarkable for power or polish,
were certainly bewitching when sung by their youthful authoress.
During most of the day, on the morning of which Mr. Evelyn first
mentioned his wishes with regard to Lionel, the sunny face of our
heroine was clouded with sorrowful thought; but towards evening, as her
father sat alone in his library, the door suddenly opened, and May,
bounding in, her eyes beaming with enthusiasm, exclaimed—“Papa! papa! I
have just thought—I know what I’ll do!—I’ll be a governess.” Her
father gazed at her in astonishment.
“A governess, May! What can have put such an idea into your head? Why
should you be a governess?”
“Oh! for Lionel, you know. I can soon earn enough to buy his
commission.”
“And it is this then, my child,” said Mr. Evelyn, tenderly, “that has so
repressed your usual spirits!” But while he spoke seriously, he could
scarcely repress a smile at the thought of the wild, childlike being
before him, transformed into a staid, dignified teacher.
During the six weeks following, the devoted girl deprived herself of all
her usual outdoor amusements, and, with wonderful energy applied, under
her father’s guidance, to study. At the end of that time, she laughingly
declared that she knew a little of everything; but still her passion for
birds and flowers was far greater than for books.
Ere the six weeks had well expired, she heard from some young friends,
who were on a visit to Wales, from London, that the earl of —— was in
want of a governess for his four children. She begged them, on their
return, to mention her. This they did, and with youthful exaggeration
extolled her talents to the skies.
The Earl understanding that she was the accomplished and amiable
daughter of an aged naval officer, saw, in his mind’s eye, a learned
lady of a certain age, who would, perhaps, prove a mother in kindness
and usefulness to his orphan children, and gladly acceded to the desire
of his young friends, that he should make trial of her.
The poor things were not aware what a little ignoramus they were
recommending; for the youthful Lionel, who, sometimes took a peep into
the library, and stared in surprise at the various apparatus for study,
had boasted all over the village in which they resided, that his sister
knew everything under the sun, and had mentioned, in corroboration of
this sweeping declaration, that she was always poring over French,
Spanish, Greek or Latin books. This, her enthusiastic young friends,
who, by the way, had only known her a fortnight, took care to make the
most of—and the result was, that May was considered, by the Earl, as a
most fitting instructress for his children, and dreaded by them as a
prim and severe restraint upon their hitherto unchecked amusements.
CHAPTER II.
It was the morning of the day on which the dreaded governess was
expected, Julia, Elizabeth, Georgiana and William—the first 15, the
second 10, the third 8, and the fourth 7 years of age, were at play in
the garden of the Earl’s country seat. They had heard awful things of
governesses from some of their young companions, and the younger
children had been whispering to each other their dread of the expected
tyrant. They had, however, resumed their gambols, and forgotten the
matter, with that charming versatility which makes them so interesting,
when their nurse appeared with the news that the governess had arrived,
and was waiting to be introduced to her young charge in the school-room.
A sudden change was observable on the countenances of all. It was
amusing to watch the expression on each of those young faces. Julia—the
pensive and graceful Julia sighed, and bent her soft eyes sadly on the
ground, as she instantly turned her steps towards the house. The little
wilful and spirited Willie began to strut manfully backward and forward,
declaring that the others might do as they liked, but that _he_ would
not go near the ugly old woman. Georgy pouted—and Lizzie burst into
tears. At the sound of weeping, Julia turned back—soothed and cheered
them all by turns—kissed away the tears of one sister—smoothed the
other’s frowning brow with her soft and loving hand, and laughed at
Willie till he was fain to join in the laugh in spite of himself. She
then desired them to follow her to the school-room—which they
did—clinging to her dress, however, as if they expected to see a
monster in the shape of a governess; but as they reached the flight of
steps which led from the lawn to the house, their courage failed, and,
leaving Julia to ascend alone, they suddenly and simultaneously turned
to escape, and hurrying away, concealed themselves in the garden, where
they soon resumed their sports.
In the meantime Julia had ascended the steps and stood gazing in silent
astonishment through the glass door opening into the school-room. The
object of her dread was there—but not as she had pictured her—a prim,
severe old-maid. A girl apparently younger than herself, with a sweet
glowing face, shaded by a profusion of lovely hair,—her straw bonnet
flung on the floor, and her simple white dress looking anything but
old-maidish—was stooping to caress their favorite dog, Carlo, while the
pet-parrot sat perched on her shoulder, mingling his gorgeous plumage
with her light brown curls, and crying with all his might, “old-maid
governess! old-maid governess!” As our heroine raised her head,
wondering at the strange salutation, (which, by the way, master Willie
had been maliciously teaching him for some time previous,) her eyes
encountered those of the smiling Julia, who, equally surprised and
delighted at the scene, already saw, in Miss Evelyn, a friend after her
own heart, such an one as she had long ardently desired.
At this critical moment, the good old nurse entered from the lawn, and
seeing the mutual embarrassment of the parties, said simply to
May—“This is your oldest pupil, madam.” At the words “madam” and
“pupil,” both May and Julia tried hard to repress the smiles which would
peep through their eyes and lips—in vain. The dimples on the cheek of
the youthful governess grew deeper and deeper—Julia’s dark eyes flashed
through their drooping fringes more and more brightly, and, at length,
the smothered merriment burst irresistibly forth. No sooner had the
latter’s eye caught the arch glance and her ear the musical laugh of
May, than she sprang forward to clasp her readily extended hand,
exclaiming, “I am sure you will be my friend!”
“That I will,” said May, “if you won’t call me ‘old-maid governess’
again.”
“Old-maid governess, old-maid governess,” screamed the parrot from his
cage.
May began to look grave, and Julia, blushing with vexation, led her
gently to the cage, outside of the door, and pointed to the bird in
silence. “How stupid I was!” exclaimed May; “I quite forgot the parrot
when I saw that beautiful dog. I do so love dogs—don’t you?”
“Yes! but I love you better,” said Julia, affectionately, throwing her
arm around her new friend’s neck, and sealing her avowal with a kiss.
At this moment, Willie was seen peeping and stealing slyly round the
shrubbery—his roguish face subdued to as demure a look as it could
possibly assume. For a moment he stared at the pair in amazement, and
then clapping his hands, he shouted,
“Georgy! Lizzie! Georgy! come and see Julia kissing the governess!”
“Oh! you lovely boy!” exclaimed May—bounding down the steps, “I must
have a kiss!” and away she flew after the little rosy rogue—he laughing
so heartily as to impede his progress, till at last helpless, from very
glee, he fell into her arms, and allowed her to kiss him half a dozen
times before he remembered that she was the teacher so dreaded by them
all. When he did recollect, he looked up half incredulously in her face.
“You are not old!” said he,—“no, nor yet prim, nor cross. I don’t think
you are so very ugly either, and maybe you don’t know much after all. I
say, governess, if you please, ma’am, can you spin a top?”
“No!” said May.
“Hurrah! I thought so—hurrah, Georgy! she don’t know so much as I do
now—hurrah! hurrah! I’ll stand by her for one!” and, tossing his hat in
the air, he sprang into the lap of May, who had sank into a low rustic
seat, quite exhausted from her exercise—her cheeks glowing—her hair in
disorder, and her lips parted with smiling delight.